Same As It Ever Was
by Lady Feylene
Summary: Percy is appalled by the bleakness of life after graduation, and his own seemingly dead end life. (Slash, Percy/Oliver)
1. Default Chapter

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Disclaimer: Percy doesn't belong to me. I'm just hanging out inside his head for a little while and writing down what's in there. :-) Oliver isn't mine either. I'm just borrowing him so Percy will have something to think about. No suing!

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Warning: This is slash, I guess, as I write Percy as being homosexual. I just see him as that. If you don't like it, don't read it.

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Dedication: To Kitten who made me love Percy even though I didn't want to.

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Author's Note: Okay, this is pretty depressing in the first chapter. This will hopefully end up being Percy/Oliver. That's what I have planned anyway. There are some dark themes in here, just to warn you. It's rather morbid. But I need to write it. I get these ideas, and they don't let me rest until they're on paper.

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Same As It Ever Was

Life. What's the point, really? We're born, we live, we work, struggle, fight every day of our lives only to die. And once we're dead, we're remembered for perhaps twenty, thirty years, and then our name fades into obscurity. In all honesty, why go through with it all? 

Oh, some people say there's some greater purpose to it all, some higher meaning. But what? What possible meaning could all of our tiny little lives have? They say that one man can make a difference. That is true yes, but *any* man. If one doesn't do it, another will. Everything will be done eventually, regardless of who does it. Particular individuals don't matter, only individuality in general.

I suppose that's my problem. I know, keenly and acutely, just how useless I really am. And it doesn't help to have it reemphasized by my family, my rivals, my coworkers, my superiors....I'm well aware I amount to absolutely nothing. Anyone can do my job. Some of them could probably do it better. I make a big deal out of it, in some vain hope of convincing myself I *am* useful.

But I'm not.

At all.

I had a vain hope, that after Mr. Crouch died, I would be moved up to department head. I wonder now why I even bothered getting my hopes up. I've seen three superiors in the space of a year, and none of them have had any idea what they're doing. No one seems to realize that I'm the only one who ever gets anything done around here. They hardly even see me, never bother to learn my name. Nearly everyone accepts me as 'Weatherby'. 

I sometimes sit and wonder what the world would be like without me. But I stop when I realize it would be exactly the same.

I sit, alone in my small cramped flat in Diagon Alley, finished with my reports and papers, and I stare into the flames of the hearth and think. I have lived here for nearly two months now, and there is nothing here to mark it as mine. No personal knick-knacks, no private clutter. There is a bed, a stove, a cupboard, a small table and a chair. This is understandable. Which means to say it is something I understand.

I have nothing with which to define myself. Ginny is the girl. Ron is the youngest. Fred and George are the twins. Charlie was the star Quidditch player, and Bill was the wild one. I am....the middle child, effectively. Bland, boring, undefined. Just like everything else in my life. Bland boring job, bland boring apartment, bland boring wardrobe. I suppose, compared to my brothers, even my looks are rather bland and boring. Pale skin, red hair trimmed short and neat, round glasses, lean frame. Nothing dashing or outstanding. 

And it isn't as though I can change. This is *me*. I can't simply wake up and be someone else. That wouldn't make me matter anymore, I'd simply be doing something else that someone else is perfectly capable of doing. People think you can change. You can't, not really. What you can do is lie to yourself and everyone around you, create some sort of facade, and live an even worse life then before. If you have to be miserable, you may as well be miserable honestly. What was that line? Better to be a fake somebody then a real nobody? That isn't true at all. *Everyone* is a nobody, they just don't realize it.

I sometimes wonder if I'm the only person that realizes this. I must be. People are far too cheerful to know. How can you be happy, knowing that you don't matter? They accuse me of being prudish and arrogant, but I'm not. I am simply aware of the truth: Nothing I have done or will do will ever matter. I am one in a million, a nameless face that will pass briefly through the light and then fade into obscurity.

I have considered taking up drinking, but then I may forget. Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. I subscribe to the latter way of thinking. I ought to be thinking about other things. But I find I can't. What is there for me to think on? I have no hobbies, no livelihoods. Again we come back to the core. What is the point? I suppose I ought to sleep. It's getting late, and I have work tomorrow. Same as always. Nothing ever changes...

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My alarm goes off at exactly six in the morning. That gives me an hour to get myself ready and Apparate into work on time. I make myself breakfast, an English muffin and a glass of orange juice. Healthy, bland, familiar. Dailey Prophet read as I eat, each article scanned for anything of importance. I shower, dress, make myself presentable. And then it's off to work, where my inbox will be full, and will remain so regardless of what I do.

I need something. I can't go on like this. I'd kill myself, but no one would care, and besides it takes too much effort. I just need some sort of change in my routine. It won't make any difference, but I could at least be less miserable then I am. I'll settle for that. I know I'm never going to be happy, I can't be. But even less wretched would be an improvement. 

The office. It could pass for a Muggle office, it really could. Dull grey walls, busy looking people scampering about with files and folders. Narrow corridors with plain doors marked only by small plaques on the front. It sickens me. 

A full inbox. As always. Mind numbing work, really. The same thing, over and over. Forms to fill, reports to file, going through an inkwell a day. I am surprised my fingers aren't calloused from all the time I spend holding a quill. They certainly ache enough, at the end of the day. I rub them with cream, when I can afford it. My pay is quite meager, and I send as much home as I can.

My mind wanders as I trudge through my day. I find myself missing my days at school. I had a semblance of a purpose there. I was prefect, then Head Boy. If I hadn't been, someone else, but it was something. I could call it mine, for that span of time it was. And I had, if not friends, at least acquaintances. And a girlfriend, sad joke that was. I formed a relationship with Penelope because it was expected. I had little interest in her in that way, she isn't to my tastes. No woman is. There's a little fact I don't advertise. Bad enough my life is the way it is, add in the factor that I prefer other men to women...

They'd never let it rest. No one knows. I think, perhaps one person suspects. Oliver Wood was the closest thing I had to a friend. We were dorm mates, and he had a certain likeability to him. Far too sports obsessed if you ask me, but a decent boy. He followed the rules, and at least attempted to show me respect. And he was...handsome. Not to mention eerily perceptive. I would often catch him giving me odd looks, especially after I'd been out with Penny. And he once commented how she really didn't seem my type at all, which was quite odd considering had I been interested in women, we would have been the perfect match.

If he knew, he never said, and I'm thankful for that. I suppose, if I truly wanted, that could be my definition. But I don't want to be defined by my taste in partners. Not that I've ever truly *had* a partner. I acted the part with Penny, even went so far as to be mildly physical with her. But I was as excited by kissing her as I was by my own mother. As in there was nothing but familial affection. It was easy, when we went our separate ways. She wanted to travel, I wanted to stay. We parted friends.

I miss her. I could talk to her, if I needed to. Nothing so deep and exposing as my innermost thoughts, but I would hint at the futility of it all. And I once made comments of it to Oliver, when he accused me of being a stick in the mud. He never mentioned it again. 

I think I may have had feelings for him. I realize it now, of course. Hind sight is twenty twenty. But it doesn't matter. Even if I'd realized it beforehand, what would I have done about it? Oliver certainly wouldn't have returned my affections. I wonder what he's doing. From what I hear down in the Magical Sports and Games department, Puddlemore United will be spending their training season here, in England. Perhaps...No.

There would be no point in sending an owl. I doubt I would even get a response. But....well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I could congratulate him on his teams win last season, I hear he did quite well. He always was a superb Keeper. Yes. I will send him an owl. Maybe that will make me feel a bit better, and writing a letter is certainly a change. I write home sometimes, but nothing more then a few lines. I am always home for dinner on the weekends, mum wouldn't have it any other way.

I pick up my quill, and retrieve a fresh piece of parchment.

Dear Oliver,

I heard of your teams success in the last season, and I wished to congratulate you.

What else to say? Nothing, really. I've never been one with words. Signed. Sealed. I'll send it today. Later, of course, after work. I shouldn't have taken the time to write it anyway. Not that it matters. Not that I'll get a response....

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I've fallen prey to short chapters. But I have so much to do....


	2. Chapter Two

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Disclaimer: Percy and Oliver don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them.

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Warning: Slash. The themes are a bit more pronounced in this chapter. Percy has some issues with his sexuality. 

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Dedication: For Kitten, and those who reviewed this.

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Author's Note: I used to hate Percy. Completely and absolutely. I'd drive my friends who like him nuts. Belittling him, insulting him, all manner of things. Then I ended up using him in a HP RPG. I let myself get into his head, and I was amazed at what I found there. We think quite a bit alike sometimes, Percy and I. And as for Percy and his little....habit, it *is* a psychological thing. It's the same as cutting oneself and bulimia. A lot of you may find it slightly disgusting, but I can't see Percy being bulimic or a cutter. And he *needs* that expulsion of emotion. He can't do it verbally or emotionally, so he needs to do it physically. Another short chapter. Shorter then the first. Sorry! 

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Same As It Ever Was

Chapter 2

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Dear Percy,

Hi! I was really happy to hear from you. Thanks for the congratulations. We could have done a lot better, but I'm not complaining. We're training pretty close to you this season, actually. I don't know if you know that or not. Maybe we could get together sometime, catch up on old times? I hardly see anyone from school. I saw Harry and your brother at the Quidditch Cup last year, and I bumped into Kiara Silvertree a few months ago. (The Hufflepuff Beater from our year) How about you? Do you still see anyone? I hear you're working for the Ministry now. Must be pretty impressive, a job with them. Definitely more stable then what I do. One bad injury here, and you're out for good. Anyway, I passed my Apparation test, so whenever you want to get together let me know. I've got Sunday's off, and nights after five. I know a *great* restaurant in Diagon Alley. Let me know!

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Oliver

I stare at the letter. He's written much more then I had. He was happy to hear from me? I'm amazed he even remembers who I am. And he wants to see me. I'm sitting at my table, what passes for a dinner laid out before me. A bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a packet of laxatives. I don't take them because I have to, but because I need to. In some strange way, it makes me feel better about everything. I feel far more relaxed, and calmer. There's most likely some psychological reason for it, I simply don't have the energy or time to investigate.

He wants to see me. Why? To catch up on old times. We, together, have no old times to catch up upon. Impressive? What I do? Has he gone mad? I think that must be the only explanation. I sip at my soup, rereading the letter. It has lifted my spirits some, I must admit. It was a hard day at work, and I am tired and frustrated. This letter certainly was an unexpected surprise. I truly hadn't expected Oliver to write back. Why should he? Who am I, to him? And old dorm mate, nothing more.

What should I write back? It would be nice to see him. And it would be a break from the general monotony of my life. A night out. I have enough for it, I've saved a little bit of money just in case something like this ever came up. And what would it hurt, truly? To take some time to myself. Even if it is with Oliver. There is far worse company I could keep.

I summon my quill and ink bottle with a word and a wave of my wand. I strain my mind, searching desperately for a topic that will cover more then one or two lines. I feel guilty, writing something small and insignificant when he has taken the time to write to me. I didn't deserve a reply like that, what with what I had written. I hardly said a word.

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Dear Oliver,

I must admit I was surprised by your reply. 

Well, that's a good enough beginning. But I must be careful, or I'll write more then I'd like. That's the main reason I don't keep a journal. I tried to, but I would go on and on at length. Pages and pages covered with my musings, rants and suppositions. And most of it highly depressing. I stopped, rather soon after I'd started. It wasn't too long after that I turned to the laxatives. I wonder if the two are related?

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I wasn't expecting one of that magnitude.

I truly wasn't. It took me by surprise. I frown, sucking thoughtfully on my quill. I rarely do that. I used to, when I was much younger. But I haven't in a very long time. I wonder what is causing me to, now.

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I was pleased, make no mistake about that.

Or does that sound too...well, familiar? I don't want it to sound like that. I bite my lower lip, but stop immediately when I catch myself. It doesn't do, to show such obvious signs of nervousness and indecision. I try and remember something, anything that passed intimately between us. That wasn't in my own mind, of course. I blush. I have forgotten how much I thought of him. I was never one for self gratification, not much. It's a messy, dirty, sinful little thing. But necessary, sometimes.

I never did it at school. Most did, and I could never fathom why. If it *must* be done, it should be done in private. Sometimes, at home. I would find myself thinking about Oliver. And I couldn't help myself. I regret it now. How would he feel, if he knew? Not that there is any way he would ever find out! I see absolutely no scenario's in which I would tell him. And no one else knows.

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I, too, have seen few of our peers. My brothers of course, but none else. I fear my job keeps me quite busy. However, I would enjoy seeing you.

Now that, I fear, sounds far too personal. What if he suspects? I am tempted to scratch it out, but I restrain myself. I do want to let him know that I am looking forward to this. But not too much. It's Thursday. Will this Sunday be too soon? I shall ask.

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I am available this Sunday, for lunch or dinner. If that is what you have in mind. Please let me know as soon as possible. 

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Percy

I scan the letter. There is nothing to give anything away. Is there? No. It is harmless. Perhaps a trifle too friendly, but in the wake of his letter...I frown. I am getting worked up. It has been a long day, and I m fretting too much about this stupid letter. It doesn't matter. It's nothing. A simple letter. There is no need for this. but I know it's too late. I will worry and fret until I hear back from Oliver. I seal the letter, hands shaking. I send it off with Hermes.

I shouldn't have done that. I realize it now, after I have sent it. Oliver will see what isn't written, and will be suspicious. He will see it's far too intimate for a letter between peers. He will decide he does not want to see me after all. I am an idiot. I need to think, before I do things. That is how I have made it where I have. I always question my actions. I didn't this time. I've set myself up to be hurt. 

I don't think they realize it, but it does not take much to hurt me. I simply don't show what I feel. What's the point? Letting it show won't change anything. And it will only cause people to pity me. I abhor pity. Oliver will see the hidden meaning in my words, and he will reject me. Without any grounds for rejection! I would never dream of admitting to him anything, or approaching him. But he will fear that. he will dread that it may happen. He will hate me...

I am getting too worked up. It's time for my laxatives. That will calm me down. I fumble with the packet, hands shaking. I feel ill. I always feel ill, when I get like this. I force my throat to accept the small tabs, holding my nose to force myself to swallow, and to block out the taste. I hate the taste of these things. I sit down, waiting for the feeling to hit me. I'll feel better later. And perhaps Oliver's reply will not be what I fear...

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	3. chapter Three

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Disclaimer: Percy and Oliver don't belong to me, I am making no money off of this, blah blah blah.

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Warning: Slashy themes! Watch out! Tame and mild, but there all the same. 

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Dedication: For Kimagure, cause you deserve it! You leave wonderful reviews, and you're a wonderful writer. I m in love with your story "Take Me Home", and can't wait for the next chapter.

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Authors Note: If you leave a review, please leave a review. Not a complaint, not a nitpick, not a flame. I like to know what people think of this story. I only write if I know people like something. If they don't like it, I don't write. Or I write purely to piss them off, depending. Oh! And 'The Flask' is actually based on a restaurant I frequent. :-)

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Same As It Ever Was

Chapter 3

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Dear Percy,

Sunday sounds great! I'd love to meet you for dinner. I haven't had a good meal out in a while. I'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron around six? If that's not good, just tell me what time is good for you and we'll meet then. It'll be really good to see you again. See you on Sunday!

Oliver

I have read and reread this letter at least a dozen times. Odd, how much two pieces of parchment can mean so much to me. There's no value in them. They're meaningless. Thoughts put into words made tangible, that's all. But they are Oliver's thoughts and words. And they are directed towards me. And that creates in me a rather pleasant form of apprehension. He is looking forward to seeing me. He wants to see me. I have owled him to tell him Sunday at six is fine. It is now Sunday, around four. I have only a little ways to go to get to the Leaky Cauldron. I have found myself caught up in what to wear.

My wardrobe is rather limited. A pair of jeans, a pair of muggle slacks, a handful of sweaters and two robes. And of course my dress robes. Nothing suitable for dinner with Oliver. My jeans, perhaps will do. (The pair I am not wearing) But none of my sweaters are suitable. They're either hand me downs or handmade by my mother. I frown, lifting my jeans out of my small closet. They are clean and pressed, I rarely ever wear them. Perhaps the slacks would be more suited? I don't want this to be too relaxed. Yes, the slacks. I pull them out, fingers trailing over the dark blue material. But I need a new shirt. Something nice. 

I look over my funds. Do I have enough to spend on a new shirt? I've been saving up. I never spend unnecessarily. I have a small horde of savings, stored away. My rainy day money, I suppose it is. A new shirt. It wouldn't cost that much. I can indulge. No. It is not an indulgence, it is a necessity. I cannot look sloppy for Oliver. And I have nothing suitable. I adjust my robe, retrieve my money purse from the locked drawer where I keep it, and prepare to leave my small apartment.

Why have I waited so long? It is only two hours before I am supposed to meet Oliver. What if I am late? Held up somewhere? So many things can go wrong...I calm myself. I am just buying a shirt. It will take me perhaps half an hour. There is a store right outside the muggle entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. I will wear my slacks, and if worst comes to worst and I'm running late, I will change on my way. 

I change my pants, quickly, then hurry out the door. I walk quickly but calmly out onto Diagon alley, and strait to the Cauldron. I slip through, walking stiff and rigid. I hate these excursions to the muggle world, but they must be done. I prefer muggle clothing for casual wear, and the only place one can find it is in the muggle world. It is often too busy for my tastes. And dirty. There is a dirtiness to Muggle London that I do not like. I would much rather stay in the Wizarding World.

The street outside is relatively empty. I frown, realizing that shops may not be open on a Sunday evening. No, they close early but not this early. I believe they close around six. I am not out enough to know things like this. I can only hope that I am correct in my assumptions. Barker's, the small men's clothing store down the street, is relatively inexpensive and easily accessible. I arrive there shortly, slipping inside with a hurried glance at my watch. Four thirty. Plenty of time. 

I browse through a few neatly folded dress shirts. Too formal. Perhaps something in cotton would be better serving. And what color? Red hair is quite hard to dress to. I am forced to depend on dark colors. Black, perhaps. But I have no desire to look morbid. White, will look fine. A simple white cotton button down shirt. I find one in the proper size, frowning over the price. It isn't that much of an expense, but I am always cautious about spending my money. I don't like to do it. I may need it someday. But, I need it now. I buy the shirt, and see that my worries of being late were ungrounded. It is hardly even five o'clock. I am able to return to my apartment, change, and make my way down to the Leaky Cauldron.

It has been nearly two years since I last saw Oliver. Will have changed? Will he be as handsome as I remember? Those are not thoughts I should be having. These are the thoughts I often get myself worked over. I am simply meeting an old....friend is not the right word. Schoolmate. Acquaintance. That is what he is. I am asked if I would like anything, and I decline. I am waiting for someone. A girl, eh? No. I would hardly be this nervous over a girl. 

The door opens. From the Wizarding side. I hold my breath, not realizing it. He has hardly changed a bit. Dark hair, trimmed neat and short. Tall, broad shouldered and burly. Lightly tanned skin, dark brown eyes, easy smile. It is the same Oliver from my memories. I don't even realize it, but I've stood up. He is dressed a bit more casually then I, but not much. Black jeans, dark grey tailored sweater. He is beautiful.

"Percy!" He waves happily at me, practically bounding over.

"Oliver." My voice is stiffer then I'd like. It is my office voice. I hold out my hand, jaw clenched tightly.

"Great to see you." He takes my hand firmly, and to my surprise, shock and partial delight, pulls me into a fierce hug. What have I done to warrant a hug? He squeezes me tightly, hands warm on my back. I gingerly return the embrace. I have been hugged by precious few people in my life. He lets me go, hands on still on my shoulders, looking me up and down. "Look at you! Mr. Ministry, huh?"

"Mmm." I make a sort of strangled noise in my throat. This is going far differently then I thought it would.

"You look good. You look real good." He gives me a little shake.

"You look well yourself." I say. Should I have said that? 

"Eh. Wait till I get through training season. Then I'll look even better." He gives me a wink. A wink? I stutter something, confused. "So...ready to grab some dinner?"

"Yes." I nod, and Oliver finally releases me. I can still feel his hands on my shoulders. He has nice hands. Long, slightly thick fingers, calloused from years of gripping his broom. The fingernails are short, and slightly chipped. My own are well manicured and clean. It is amazing, how different our hands are. I wonder what mine would look like, in his. My slim, pale fingers eclipsed by his...I shake my had slightly. I should not be thinking this! Besides, Oliver is talking to me, and I've not been paying attention...

"...addicted to it. Ever been?"

"No." No matter what he is has asked, I am sure the answer will be no. I am assuming he is talking about the restaurant we are going to. I have not been out to eat in a very, very long time. And never in Diagon Alley.

"You'll love it, I can just tell." He claps me on the back. Has he always been this physical? He leads me down the street, to an out of the way place. I have never even noticed this small restaurant before. 'The Goblins Flask'. I've never even heard of it. I frown, as Oliver holds the door for me.

"It's...." Words fail me. Except for words like 'small' 'dank' 'claustrophobic' and, for some inexplicable reason, 'mead'. "Folksy." I settle for. The walls-that I can see- are very dark wood, and there are perhaps three or four tables in the center of the room. Dark wooden booths line the walls. There are...things, hanging on the wall. Various animal heads, wooden signs, and other things. Nearly every inch of the wall is covered with something. There is a smell of meat in the air. It is nearly empty.

"And we hit it just right!" Oliver exclaims. "Nita, I'm taking my booth!" He calls to a waitress in a short chain mail looking robe. I'm not sure what to say. He leads me over to a small booth in the corner, sliding into the seat easily.

"I've never seen this place." I say, still glancing around.

"I've been coming here since I was fifteen. I love it!"

"Ah." I suppose it fits him. The waitress in chain male comes over, handing us menus and giving Oliver a knowing wink. She is young. Our age. Perhaps they are....acquainted? I look her over out of the corner of my eye. Dark red hair cut short, blue eyes, curvy. I suppose she is attractive, as far as women go. Yes, I can see how he would be attracted to her. 

"The mud burger is a favorite of mine." Oliver says, flipping open the menu.

"The what?"

"Mud burger. It's a burger, slathered in ketchup, barbecue sauce, and 'special sauce'. I think the special sauce is just borolovian bloodsauce, but it's great."

"I'll have a salad." I say. I hate heavy meat. It does unpleasant things to my stomach.

"Salad?" Oliver rolls his eyes at me. "I'm having a mudburger. And...a chocomalt."

"How can you eat like that?" I blanch. I don't understand how people can eat that way. It's revolting!

"Oh, I've got a stomach of steel. I can eat anything." He grins broadly, setting the menu aside.

"If I ate like that..." I trail off, shuddering.

"Yeah, you look like the type that'd have a delicate stomach."

"I do." I place my menu on the table as well. Water and a salad. Not only is it easy on my stomach, it is inexpensive.

"So...tell me all about working for the Ministry." Oliver says, leaning forward.

"Oh, there's nothing much to tell." This is not a subject I'd like to get started on. "I'm assistant to the head of the department, we've had three so far. It's mainly shifting paper work and whatnot."

"Sounds...fulfilling."

"Not particularly." I frown, sighing. "I hate it."

"Then why do it?"

"Because..." I falter. I have no good response, save for my usual. "It doesn't matter what I do, in the long run." I shrug.

"Why not?"

"Because...it's not going to really matter, in the end."

"Sure it will." Oliver tilts his head. "When you're an old man, with no teeth, you can look back on your life and say 'I had a good run'."

"And what does that matter?" I press. I have a sudden desire to share my thoughts with Oliver. He seems eager to hear them, which is more then I can say for anyone else. "Once I'm dead, it won't matter."

"But it will before that."

"But before doesn't matter. Everything that comes before doesn't matter!"

"Perce..." Oliver shakes his head. "Don't you want to be happy?"

"Well....yes, I suppose I'd like that." He isn't getting it. He doesn't understand. "But I won't be."

"Why not?"

"Because...it doesn't matter. Once it's all said and done, nothing matters. I simply can't be happy, knowing that." I shrug. I can put it in no other words then that.

"Perce..." He shakes my head, and reaches for my hand across the table. I stare, not sure what he is doing. He places his hand over mine, his palm resting on the back of my hand, warm and comforting. It is calloused lightly. I can't help but look at my hand, covered by his. I wonder where this pet name for me has come from. "It's not like that." he says, softly. "It's not like that at all."

"But it is!" I insist. I don't want to convince him, but...no one has ever even listened to me before. And Oliver is listening. And paying attention.

"No. It isn't. The point of life is to live it." He squeezes my hand, gently. I can feel myself melting inside, looking up from his hand and into dark brown eyes. He has beautiful eyes. I could lose myself in them, if I wanted to. But I do not want to. I do not want to think of Oliver's beautiful eyes, or hands, or beauty in general. 

"And then what?" I hear myself asking.

"Who knows." Oliver shrugs, looking deeply into my eyes. His fingers are moving lightly over the back of my hand. It sends small shivers through my being. It is amazing, how erotic the feel of his fingertips on my hand is. I push it away, but I am locked in his gaze. He is still speaking, softly and emphatically. "And who cares? Why worry about it now. Be happy. Be alive." 

Or food has come. It interrupts this odd, intense moment we are having, and I am at a loss as to how to recapture it.

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	4. Chapter Four

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Disclaimer: Percy and Oliver are not mine.

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Warning: A bit more intense slashiness. 

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Dedication: For everyone who reviewed. I'd name you all, but my fingers hurt.

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Author's Note: My hands are killing me. So no in depth author's note. I have tendonitis, and I've been typing all day. Enjoy the story!

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Same As It Ever Was

Chapter 4

The food is good, I suppose. There are only so many different things one can do to make a salad stand out. We do not talk much through dinner. I must keep myself from staring at him. The way his jaw moves when he eats. The way he handles his flatware. My eyes follow him, in a hidden manner. He is one of the few things I have any active interest in. But I must be careful. I cannot let on...

There is an instant where I think I may need to excuse myself. He is not the cleanest of eaters. This habit annoys me, but we all have faults. And his sandwich is full of things that drip out. And drip they do. He manages to get sauce on his fingers. And unlike a normal person, he does not go for his napkin. He simply licks it off. My eyes are glued to his actions, and my fingers curl about my napkin, gripping it tightly.

He runs his tongue along his finger, slowly, so as not to miss anything. His eyes are closed as he does so. How easy it is for my mind, in it's wanton recesses, to imagine his tongue languidly stroking along *my* finger. He sucks the tip of his finger in his mouth, making a small noise of appreciation. His actions have taken perhaps three or four seconds ant most, but to me it is an eternity.

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't have done that in front of you, huh?" He asks, chuckling sheepishly. "I'm usually not such a pig, trust me."

"It's quite all right." I respond, in a manner which Fred or George would perhaps say was prim.

"You don't hold it against me?" He asks, looking up from below lowered lashes. He has beautiful eyelashes. Thick and long and full.

"Certainly not." I answer. I am struggling for control of myself. He looks into my eyes. Is evidence of my...interest clear there? What if he guesses? What if he is suspicious...

"Good." He says, and to my horror he swirls his finger in what is left of the sauce on his plate and proceeds to suck it off. I swallow, my throat dry. I fumble for my water, eyes still focused on Oliver's finger and lips. But I cannot blame him. He has no idea how what he is doing is affecting me. He can't. But it is still difficult. I take a long drink of my water, feeling some of the heat that has risen in me subsiding. I know my face must be flushed, I can feel the blood there. Oliver glances up, and a look passes over his face.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, suddenly.

"N-no." I sputter quickly. I am aghast. I hurry to calm by breathing, to still my heart that is now pounding against my throat.

"Tell me if I am." He says, blinking. His dark brown eyes are fixed on mine, as though searching for something there.

"You aren't."

"Cause it looks like maybe I am..."

"I'm fine!" I practically snap it, and I regret it. "Oliver, I'm sorry." I say, softly. "It has been a very long week, and my nerves are simply worn down."

"I understand." Oliver nods. He looks...wary. Dear Merlin, he knows. I have let on. I have given him so clue to my interest. Now what? We are silent, both staring down at our plates. There is a nervous tension between us now. I clear my throat, but have no words. I smooth my pants over my lap, uneedfully. Though there are other people here, it feels almost as though there is silence all around us. That heavy, oppressive silence that demands to be filled.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Oliver asks, suddenly and in a strange voice. I can only nod. He has concluded that I have some sort of designs on him, and he is offended. he has no more wish to be in my company. Anger and shame burn inside of me. This was a horrible idea. Why did I come? I set my jaw, my stomach already beginning to churn. It is going to be a long night, I can tell. I think a headache is coming on, as well. I will be in a right state by the time I get home. Oliver signals the waitress for the bill. She places it on the table, and I reach for it, to see how much I owe.

"I don't think so." Oliver says, softly but firmly. "It's on me."

"Oh." Shame stains my face again. I am not sure what this tactic means. Either it is some sort of offering, or he is doing me some form of charity. Either way, I am ashamed. But I do not demand that I pay for myself. I am a bit of a miser, I will admit it. I cannot look at him. Or I shouldn't want to look. But I do. I glance up, and am pained by the expression on his face. One of almost sadness and regret. I want to be home.

"I'm sorry." Oliver says, standing. 

"You have nothing to apologize for." I force myself to say. This is no fault of his. I am the one to blame. I have deluded him, deceived him. 

"No, I do." We exit the restaurant, and it is dark outside. Dark and somewhat cold, crisp. It is a beautiful night. And it brings out in me the most exquisite and infinite of sadness. There is something distant about the night. It is cold and detached. It does not care. This night was made for young lovers, not old fools. 

"Please." I say. I have no more desire to anger him. We are alone on the street. 

"No, look..." Oliver runs a hand through his hair. I recognize the tiredness in his voice. "I am really sorry. I thought..."

"Please!" I repeat. "It doesn't matter." 

"Yes, it does." Oliver takes a deep breath, and sighs. He stands before me, moonlight frosting his hair and skin, making him look all the more lovely and unattainable.

"I think I should just go home." I say quietly. I long to touch him, to press my lips against his smooth, soft palm. To run my fingers through his hair, which must be soft and akin to silk.

"May I...may I at least walk you?" He sounds as though he is asking me for the moon. I nod, and we walk in silence towards my building. In the cold moonlight, walking quietly beside him, I can pretend. Pretend the night did not happen. That he is not appalled by me, hurt by me. I want to take his hand. I want nothing more then to take his hand in mine, feeling every nuance and subtlety of it. We come to my building.

"This is me." I say, in classic fashion. But there will be no sweet goodnight kiss for me. Only a cold, final goodbye. An end to something that never even was.

"You won't..." Oliver pauses, wetting his lips. "You won't tell anyone about this, will you?"

"Of course not." I say. Why would I tell? I want this to be known even less then he does.

"Thanks. And...you're not...offended, are you?"

"No." I'm not. He is entitled to his own opinions. "You've no control over your...tastes." I risk. I don't want to offend him either, no more then I have already.

"Neither do you." He says, with a sigh. "I really am sorry about this. If I'd known...I just assumed..." He waves his hand in a frustrated gesture, and understand what he is trying to say.

"We all assume things." I say, kindly. I cannot be angry with him. "In truth, there is no way to know anyone's preference without asking." I have a sudden fear. What if that has nothing to do with this? But Oliver nods.

"You're right. So this is really my fault."

"Oh, not at all!" I rush to assure him. "You had no reason to..." I trail off. I am not sure how to phrase it. I have never vocally spoken of my sexuality before. Simply because there has never been any reason to.

"Yes I did!" Oliver says, shaking his head. "Percy, you really don't have to be so polite about this. I mean, feel free to hit me if you'd like."

"Hit you?" I am lost. Why in the world would I be upset? Unless...unless Oliver feels badly that my feelings are unrequited. "Oh, no. That's really not necessary."

"You sure?" He asks. "Because I know if I was in your position, I'd probably want to hit me."

"I have no desire to hit you." I answer softly. No, I would far rather kiss you. And I have a sudden, almost unfightable urge to do just that. To cup my hand against his cheek, tilt his face to mine, and brush my lips across his.

"You're being a real sport about this." He continues. 

"These things happen." I sound hopeless, I know I do. I just want to be gone. Any longer and I will lose control. My fingers are twitching, imaging the feel of his cheek.

"Yeah. Do you..." Oliver hesitates, cocking his head at me. "I don't want to freak you out, but..."

"Yes?" I wish he would just ask whatever it is and be gone. Leave me to my lonely existence. 

"Never mind." He shakes his head, and holds out his hand. I stare at it.

"I don't think that would be a good idea." I say softly. Too easy for me to pull him close, wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck, breathing his scent...

"You're right." He dips his head, hurt. Why does this bother him so? "I really should have said something."

"About what?" I ask, confused. I was the one who should have spoken up, not him. I should have warned him, admitted to my attraction so as not to encounter this exact situation.

"About this." He waves his hand. "It's just...please don't take this the wrong way, okay? Just a bit of defence...I've never been wrong before."

"Wrong?" Now I am thoroughly confused. And the confusion is overpowering the shame and hurt.

"Every guy I've ever asked out has been interested."

"Oh." I nod, and then his words hit me. "Pardon?"

"I've never made a mistake before." He says, shrugging.

"I see." I struggle with my words. I need to be certain, I need to grasp everything. "Oliver...what was tonight?"

"Well, I thought it was a date..."

"Oh god..." I sink to teh steps of the building. My legs won't hold me up. Oliver kneels, concerned.

"Are you okay?"

I can only nod. He...suddenly, I am laughing hysterically. I can't help it. I wrap my arms around my middle and laugh, almost choking in my enthusiasm. All of this time, we have both been thinking the same thing, and we have both been horribly wrong. These things do not truly happen. These are the things one reads about, not the things one lives.

"Percy?" I am frightening Oliver. I can feel tears leaking out of my eyes. I don't think I have ever laughed like this. It frightened me, in all honesty.

"Oh, Oliver..." I struggle to control my emotions. "I believe...I believe there has been a misunderstanding."

"Oh?" 

"Yes." I swallow, I get control of myself. "I..." I am not sure how to say this. I have never been good with my words. I take Oliver's hand in my own, shivering at the contact. "You didn't make a mistake."

"Oh?" 

"No." I shake my head. "You were quite accurate in your assessment of my sexuality."

"Then...?" He tilts his head, confused.

"Yes." I nod. "As I said, I believe there was a misunderstanding." I cannot express the feelings inside of me. Oliver...Oliver is attracted to me. In the same manner I am attracted to him. Nothing has quite affected me in this way. 

"Wow." He sighs, smiling. I flush, licking my lips. This is a highly amusing situation. I do not want the night to be over now.

"Quite." I agree. I stand, pulling him up with me. He does not let go of my hand. I take this as a good sign. I swallow hard, not entirely sure if I am making teh right decision. "Would you like to come up?"

~~~~~~


	5. Chapter Five

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Disclaimer: Oliver and Percy are not mine. I'm making no money off of this whatsoever.

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Warning: Slashy themes! And this is actual slash, not just implied! Hope you enjoy it! I may end up raising the rating in the next chapter...

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Dedication: This is for Kitten. Damn that hobbit for spilling my makeup...

Author's Note: I don't know if the rating is going to change soon or not. It may. I might just end up doing some smutty bits. :-) I don't know though, I've been getting away from that lately. 

I have to write this. I just encountered something more disturbing then anything my mind could ever have conceived off. I am still rather numb and shivering from it. But luckily I have this lovely little fic to occupy my mind! 

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Same As It Ever Was

Chapter 5

"I'd like that a lot."

I cannot describe the thrill his words send through me. I only nod, and turn away silently, any words caught in my throat. I have never brought anyone to see my small apartment before. I am overcome suddenly by a feeling of shame. What will he think of it? It's so small and sparse...at least it is clean. I would die of shame, bringing him to a messy apartment. I am not sure what is going to happen. I do not know what he expects from me, or what I am to expect from him. I must play this by ear, this strange situation I have found myself in.

"It's this one." I mutter, pausing before my door. Doubts assail me. Why did I do this? I am clumsy, and foolish, and I will make a mess of things. I unlock my door, opening it and stepping inside. Yes, this is a small and sad place to live.

"Very you." Oliver says, after a long pause. I flush crimson. That does not say much for me, I fear. Though I suppose it is true. My apartment is dull and lackluster, much like myself. It is simple and uncluttered. I nod, and stand, awkwardly as he looks around. I am not sure what etiquette calls for in this situation. I should offer him something.

"Would you like a drink?" Not that I have much. But it is the polite thing to do.

"No, thanks." He shakes his head, and I am relieved. 

"Please sit down." I gesturing to the one chair. I wish there was more furniture, but there is no room. Oliver does, smiling at me.

"You look really nervous." He says. I flush again. It seems to be all I'm capable of tonight. Wonderful Percy, you're really impressing him. You have Oliver Wood, along in your apartment, showing interest in you, and all you can do is stammer and flush. And you wonder why you're still single?

"I've...I've never really been in this sort of position before." I admit.

"Ah." Oliver nods sagely. "No point to it, I suppose?"

"Well, actually no." I shrug and sit down on my bed. Neatly made, as always. I can't leave my apartment if the bed is messy. This is more familiar territory. "I've never been much for relationships. I see no point."

"And why isn't there any point to that?"

"Because. You find someone, you bind yourselves to each other for an undetermined length of time, and then it ends, and one or both parties end up getting hurt. They nurse their wounds for a while, become bitter and angry, find someone else, and the whole cycle starts again."

"And you know this how?" Oliver cocks his head at me.

"Well, it's rather obvious." I shrug.

"What about married couples?" Oliver pushes. "My folks have been together since they were kids."

"Yes, so have mine." I agree. "But that is a rare thing. Oh come on Oliver. You went to school same as me. You saw the petty power plays that went on, especially when it came to relationships. And I can honestly say my one relationship could have been detrimental to both of us."

"Why?"

"Well....I had no real interest in Penny." I confess. "I simply was with her because...well, honestly because of societal pressure."

"Perce, that's really sort of sad." Oliver frowns at me, and I shrug. 

"It's the truth." Who is he to tell me what is sad? We can not all have charmed lives. "I was with her because it was expected of me. She was a dear friend, but as far as anything deeper..."

"Then why weren't you with someone you actually wanted?" 

"There was...no one." I falter. I cannot tell him it was *him* I wanted. Longed for, when I gave in to longing. That would not go over well, I am certain. 

"There was me." He says, rather cheekily I think. I give him a frosty gaze.

"And what makes you so certain I was interested in you?" I ask, sniffing.

"Oh, I'm not as dense as some people think." And he says this with a rather sly grin. "Quidditch wasn't *all* I paid attention to. And I can usually tell when someone likes me. If I'm wrong, feel free to slap me."

"Well...you aren't wrong." I admit. "I did...rather fancy you in school."

"And I'm assuming you still do, since I'm here now."

"I...I don't know." It's a lie. A blatant lie. I hope he can't see through it. 

"Well, I hope so." Oliver continues, folding his arms behind his head. "I fancy you."

"Really?" I look at him calmly, hands clasped in my lap. I find it hard to believe that he fancies me. I'm nothing. Insignificant. I have no appeal, nothing to draw his eye.

"Yes, really. Fancied you since school, really. But back then you were too...what's the word? Anal retentive."

"And I've changed?" 

"I hope so." He shrugs, and stands, smiling softly at me. "You seem...sadder."

"Sadder?" I tilt my head, confused. I don't think I'm more sad then I've ever been.

"Yeah." Oliver sits down next to me, and I shift to compensate for the dipping of the bed.

"I've not changed that much." I admit, turning my head to look at him.

"Yes. You have." His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek. I shudder at the contact. His fingers are warm. "Let me look at you, huh?" His fingers brush against my glasses, pulling them away. I blink, my eyes adjusting. Oliver's fingers return to my cheek, lightly stroking. I swallow, nervously. His eyes are searching mine, and I am lost in their warm darkness. So soft and rich and soulful. I am lost in them. My lips fall, parted. It is something I do not plan on doing, it simply happens. Oliver's eyes are smiling, and he closes the distant between us, his lips pressing softly against mine.

It is beautiful. His lips are warm and moist and tender. They fit against mine perfectly, full on firm. His fingers on my cheek slide back, tangling in my hair. His lips move against mine, gently. I close my eyes, my mind a soft, blissful blank. This is heaven. My hands remain in my lap, though. I was never good at this sort of thing. I move my lips against his, bottom lip sliding against his, tasting the subtle hint of chocolate on his mouth. I try and take everything in at once. His skin is soft, and there is the slightest hint of stubble on his chin. My hands unclasp, one seeking his. I twine my fingers in his, squeezing gently. And then he is pulling away, and I feel empty.

~~~~ 


	6. Chapter Six

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Disclaimer: Percy and Oliver still do not belong to me. No money is being made off of this.

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Dedication: This is to Becca, for inspiring me with her beautiful poetry. Go read it here: e, wide eyed into Oliver's eyes. They are such beautiful eyes. Warm and dark and open. There are no secrets there. I can see all of him in his eyes. He hides nothing from me. What must it be like, to have nothing to hide from the world? I cannot imagine. He is unashamed of everything that is him. I search his face, amazed at him, awed by him. My hand rests against his cheek, feeling his soft skin, the slightest hint of stubble discernable under my fingers. I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life as what is before me now. Oliver, beautiful eyed, lips dark from kissing me, smiling at me.

"Why?" The word is torn from my mouth in a hoarse whisper.

"Because you deserve it." He says, placing both his hands on the back of my head, cradling it. I have the sudden, silliest urge to begin crying. I can feel that prickly sensation behind my eyes that precedes the shedding of tears, and I must fight it back. I cannot cry, not after so perfect a moment. In truth, it was the most perfect moment of my life. The feel of Oliver's lips against mine is branded upon my mind. I shudder, exhaling slowly. 

"No, I don't." I say softly. I suddenly want him gone. I do not deserve him, this! I am wholly unworthy. And I feel almost as though I have sullied him in some way, made him something less then he is by allowing this intimate contact.

"Stuff it, Perce." Oliver says, brushing his lips against mine again. I shiver, that touch sending so many things through my body. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he see what he is doing to me? He is teasing me, showing me glimpses of things I shall never have. 

"Please...." I mumble, all the while longing for those sweet, soft lips to capture mine and never let them go. "Don't do this..."

"Why? What's wrong?" There is genuine concern in his voice. He rubs my cheek with his thumb, pressing his forehead against mine.

"I...I'm not like you." I say, hopelessly, desperately.

"What do you mean?" Soft. Assuring. Gentle. His voice is soothing, but I can feel the tears seeping from the corners of my eyes even as I hear the soft sigh of my heart breaking. "Percy, what's wrong?"

And his lips are brushing my cheekbones, kissing the tracks of tears I cannot stop. My shoulders shake, and I long to take him in my arms and let him hold me, rock me, assure me that all is well. But I cannot give in like that. I cannot delude myself, if even for a moment. I take a deep breath, speaking calmly even through my tears.

"Oliver." I say calmly, my eyes meeting his unflinchingly. I pause, but not for long. We are both adults, and when one adult invites another adult up to their flat after a date, there is generally only one reason. "Where will you be come morning? Don't answer. You will be back wherever it is you came from. And I..." I shudder, swallowing hard. Why do I always do this? Deny myself the things I long for most? 

"Oh, Perce..." He kisses my forehead, and his kisses are a soothing balm, as though his lips are pressing not against my skin but my soul. "You don't know I'm not going to be here in the morning."

"You've no reason to stay." I do not mean for my voice to sound so pleading, so pained. I have done well, to never let my emotions show. Not like this. But now my walls have collapsed around my soul, and my tongue trips over the detritus.

"Sure I do." Oliver says, smoothing my hair with his hand. My tears flow freely now. He doesn't understand what he has done. What he has made me see. He has given me hope, and hope is the last thing a desolate soul should be allowed. I shake my head fiercely, hands rising to bat his forcefully away. I tilt up my chin, almost defiantly. He simply does not understand.

"Oliver, I am sorry. I can't be one of your one night stands." I say it with a sense of dignity and martyrdom. Or so I hope. But I fear it sounded childish and condescending.

"Percy, I'm not looking for a one night stand. I've got a damn good reason to be here in the morning, and that reason is you."

I freeze. I collect my straggling thoughts, shepherding back into some semblance of order. I take a deep breath. He still does not understand. I am not a fling, either. I cannot long for something, have it dangled before me and then ripped away. I know I must bare a bit more of my soul to Oliver, to explain why I must push him away. Why does he have to be so kind to me? 

"Oliver." I say, sighing. I take his hands in mine, and smile as warmly as I can. I lick my lips, and take a deep breath. "I am not like you, as I said before. You may be here in the morning, but what about in a week? If I allow this to be, I..." I falter, not able to look him in the eye. My Gryffindor bravery fails me, as I cannot speak these words to his face. "If I allow this, I will fall in love with you."

~~~~~~~~


	7. Chapter Seven

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Disclaimer: Still not mine. Never were, never will be.

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Warning: It gets a _bit _graphic here. Not too badly, just more then we've seen.

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Dedication: This is for all of you Percy/Oliver fans. You converted me!

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Author's Note: Okay folks, this is it. Last chapter. It's short, but I hope you enjoy it. :-) I certainly enjoyed writing this. I wanted to try and make it a bit longer, but it would have been...choppy. I apologize. I hope it is a fitting ending. I think it is.

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Same As It Ever Was

Chapter 8 

Oliver says nothing for a very long time. I raise my eyes after I have said the words, my courage coming back to me. I look at him almost challengingly, daring him to respond. What can he say, after my admission? I know I don't know, but I am curious. My courage falters as he continues to say nothing, to simply look at me, mild and unshaken.

He leans forward. I feel his lips on mine again, soft and tender. I have not the strength to push him away. I surrender to his lips, letting myself be swept away, despite the protests from the inner recesses of my mind. His hands take mine, pulling me up, leading me. I am undone. By his lips, his hands, his scent, his feel. I cannot fight it. It overwhelms me, pulls me down, pushes me to a place I've never dared go before. I wonder why he does not speak. But he communicates to me in a far baser and eloquent manner then speech. There is something in his kiss, an assurance, a promise. I do not question it, for once. I cannot bare to.

I feel the bed against my legs. I falter, my heart missing a beat as Oliver's hands caress my back, fingers seeking out sensitive spots on my spine. I cannot suppress a moan as his lips descend upon my throat, and I shudder. These are sensations I have never even conceived of. The imagination pales in light of the reality of talented, soft lips. And hands. And skin. I am lost in a void of sensual pleasure

This is not right. This is debauchery. But I am not a willing victim, rather I give myself over completely, even join in. I allow my hands to find his shoulders and back, allow them to slide awkwardly over fabric covered muscle. I have never been in such an intimate position before. I am confused, but I try not to show it. He pushes me down, and I lay back on the bed, not certain what to do.

"Taking things a little fast." Oliver says softly, and with amusement. He sits next to me, and I flush. He takes my hand, pulling me up to kiss me again. I open my lips to him, allowing him access. This is a strange sensation, another's tongue inside of my mouth. But it isn't bad. It is as though he is exploring my mouth. He leaves no crevice untouched. My teeth, tongue, palate. I shiver, and I move my tongue against his, finding it eager and willing.

I am well aware I will be an inferior lover, if it goes that far. What I have done has been tame and unrelated. Holding hands with Penny, a few chaste kisses are the extent of my knowledge. This is above and beyond tameness and propriety. But there is nothing immoral in physical pleasure. Not the act itself. The immorality resides in the circumstances. We continue to kiss, and I begin to relax. His hands slide under my shirt, palms flat against my bare back. This new sensation overwhelms me.

"Oliver..." I am not sure if I say his name in protest or encouragement. He takes it as the latter, his hands coming around, sliding easily over my skin, to undo the buttons of my crisp white shirt. I make no move to help or hinder. It is out of my hands now. Regardless of what I want, I will do nothing to stop him. He draws the shirt off of my shoulders, tossing it aside. I frown at the careless treatment, but say nothing.

He takes me in his arms again, lips meeting lips. I close my eyes, not paying attention to mundane things. My hands caress him, and I hope I am doing it right. I mimic his hands on my own body, feeling his smooth skin, rough from old scars in places. He is muscular and defined, and I run my palms reverently over his shoulders and back. He pulls back, slipping easily out of his shirt. He is beautiful to behold, smooth and sleek, skin a light dusk color. I let my eyes travel over his body, feeling distinctly inferior. What is this? What does this mean to him?

My resolution to abandon my sensibilities falters. I cannot do this. I cannot stand to have something so fleeting. I cannot reach for a dream, brush it with my fingers, only to have it ripped away. I look at him, our eyes meeting. I know there is sadness in mine, but I cannot stop it, cannot hide it. My barriers have fallen, and I am exposed to him.

"Are you okay?" He asks, his hand reaching up to cup my cheek?

"I suppose." It's an honest answer. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I should want. I know I want Oliver, but not in a way he is willing to give. I want him wholly and completely. I will accept nothing less. If all else in my life must be second rate, tiresome, bland, this will not be.

"What's wrong?"

"You know very well what's wrong." There is no malice in my words and I rest my cheek firmly into his hand. It is warm and good.

"I do?" He raises and eyebrow, rubbing this thumb over my cheekbone.

"Yes." I nod, sighing at the sensation of skin on skin.

"Care to refresh my memory?"

"Oliver." This time I do not turn away. I meet his gaze unflinching. I wrap my bravery about me, like a cloak. I know I will perhaps drive him away, if I persist, but rather drive him away then lose him. I have accepted that Oliver Wood is not something I am to have. He is a dream, not a reality. Something to long for, strive for, but never achieve.

"If this continues, I will fall in love with you." That's a lie. I'm halfway in love already. Or as in love as I suppose I'll ever be.

"I know." Oliver says, lips sliding tantalizingly against mine. His next words seal my fate. In one breath, he manages to redirect the course of my life, alter my entire future. And for once, I do not mind. He kisses me deeply, before speaking again. His eyes are bright and deep and soulful, his voice soft and warm. I sink into it, falling into an abyss there is no way out of. Nor that I *want* out of.

"I'm going to fall in love with you, too."

~~~~~~~~~~


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